


we unlucky few

by TruantPony



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Aging, Angst, F/M, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TruantPony/pseuds/TruantPony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The years have been hard; we’ll pick up where we left off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we unlucky few

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laikkuseia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Laikkuseia).



In his profession, you either got dead or you got out. Getting out isn’t really an option; for Leon, his duty is to help stop the proliferation of B.O.W.s and do what little he can to keep the world a safer place.

But even he has to admit that the thought of retirement occasionally crosses his mind.

Like now, he thinks, wincing as he steps into the hot spray of the shower, body aching and advertising every bruise, cut, and scrape.

Leon dips his head under water so hot it scalds, lets it saturate his hair and sluice down his face. The steam rises up all around him and his tired fingers fumble the tiny bar of complementary soap. The scent is bland and unremarkable, like everything else in this hotel (the name of which he hadn't even bothered to remember).

His soapy hands slip across his skin, trace over old scars that are now nothing more than collagen tissue, pale fibrous nodules that rise up like mountain ridges across the topography of his skin. Oh, there’ll be some new ones for sure, marking this the latest mission, chasing Simmons from one side of the globe to the other. There's the one from the crash that should have gotten stitches...a few others that that’ll heal nicely on their own. In time, they’ll leave no trace behind except the memory of a close call.

No one is made of Kevlar all the time and close calls seem to get closer all the time.

D.S.O. field agents have a short life-span. Nothing drives that home like addressing a group of people that get younger every year. It’s a struggle to find familiar names and faces. Some people transfer out while they still can and take a desk job, where the worst they have to worry about is carpal tunnel. Others leave behind a great compensation package for their families.

Hot water makes him feel clean again, and he tries to wash it all away- the sweat, the sticky viscous blood, and god knows what else. Yes, the horror and the heartbreak too, but those don’t wash off as easily as zombie juices.

After all is said and done in Lanshiang, after Hunnigan’s debriefing, they have to send in a mop-up team after all. No doubt the U.N. wants to keep this latest biohazard outbreak a secret, and the B.S.A.A. insists they can handle it, that it’s their job. But with half their agents either deceased or missing, Chris Redfield’s team isn’t going to say a thing when they see D.S.O. on the ground. Hell, they might even be happy about it. Leon knows he would have been if he were in Chris’ shoes.

He stays under the hot water until it runs clear, until he feels the tension bleed out of his shoulders and then he turns the taps off, steps out of the shower, wraps one towel around his waist, and slings another around his neck to catch the water dripping off his hair.

A trace of adrenalin laces his veins still; he feels wrung out. Leon is in peak condition (everyone tells him so), but he feels so damn tired. A vacation is in order. Hunnigan won’t mind if he...disappears for a few weeks, right? After all, they just helped clear a city full of zombies. Despite his experience, he’ll still have nightmares for weeks afterwards.

Even though zombies have lost every semblance of humanity, Leon thinks that killing something that wears the face of human being will stick with you, stain your hands forever. It doesn’t matter how many zombies you kill; you never forget. You remember them and sometimes they come back to haunt your dreams as soon as life returns to some semblance of peace and normality.

Leon fears the day will come when it will no longer bother him to shoot into the face of something that was once human. He’s afraid that day may have already passed.

Leaning forward he swipes his hand across the foggy mirror, cold porcelain sink pressing into his hipbones. His hair hangs dark and wet, frames the careworn lines of his face. There are dark circles under his eyes and he looks a bit sad, a bit brittle, like someone who doesn’t know how to smile anymore. The fluorescent lights make his skin look too sallow, emphasizes the rough edges of his face, the stubborn jut of his chin, and the crinkled shelf of his brows. The sharp planes of his cheekbones, combined with overhead lighting throw weird shadows, making him look more gaunt than he actually is.

Makes him look older than he is, too.

He scowls at his reflection, and runs his knuckles across the stubble on his cheeks. He forgot his shaving kit. He doesn’t remember having to shave as much he does now, when he was a fresh-faced newbie rolling into his first job- late. Turns out, he never did get a chance to use all the excuses he had mentally rehearsed that day, since everyone that was supposed to hear it was dead.

Well, dead-ish anyway. Fifteen years ago, he had unknowingly walked right into the hell that was Raccoon City and came out if it completely changed.

When he thinks back, there were times when he wondered whether he’d get out of it all alive. When the undead hordes outnumbered the ammo in his pistol, when he was scared, desperate and cornered, he always imagined saving that last bullet...

If there weren't people that were counting on him, people who needed saving, and most of all, people who saved him, he wasn't so sure if he would have used his last bullet on a zombie.

In his darkest hours, when there seemed to be no hope, he swore to himself that he owed it to everyone he cared about (dead or alive) to keep surviving, to save others as he had been saved.

That thought kept him going, kept him tightly focused on the missions at hand, kept his hand steady as he faced down the worst that humanity had to offer.

Still, he hadn’t saved nearly as many people as he would have liked.

And each person he has failed to protect- Benford, the people he saw on the security camera waving signs for help even as they were attacked by zombies, all 70,000 in Tall Oaks, and the countless numbers in Tatchin...each of them feel like a stone threatening to drag him under until he drowns in an ocean of despair. Each failure is a million ‘what ifs’. What if he had been stronger, what if he had been faster? What if he could have made a better choice that would have saved one more person?

He knows that there is no point in wondering because the people he wants to ask forgiveness from are all dead.

* * *

There’s a smell in the air, fresh gunpowder and perfume, a shift in the shadows of the darkened room that warns him he’s not alone when he steps out of the bathroom.

Leon’s hand goes to hilt of his trusty knife, stance shifting in preparation for an attack. The gun is just out of reach on the other side of the sink.

“Leon, you’re always prepared, aren’t you? I expected no less.”

“Ada,” he breathes and she melts out of the shadows, the lady in red.

There’s a coy smirk on her face, and and a impish glint in her eyes. Her expression, as usual is unreadable, and the arch of her brow implies she knows things that he can never begin to guess.

He thinks she likes to sneak up on him just to enjoy the expression on his face. So, he tries to ignore his heart, beating a staccato rhythm in his chest, ignores the prickling heat on his skin, crosses his arms and pulls his best frown.

“Let me guess,” he says, “grappling gun, right?” That’s the only way she could have gotten into the room. He’s eight stories up; there’s no fire escape. A quick glance at the door tells him it’s still locked. The chair he propped against the doorknob sits there untouched. Paranoid, he knows, but it’s better than the alternative.

“You know me too well,” she says wryly.

“I don’t know you well enough,” he counters even though they both know it’s somewhat of a lie.

“I’m hurt,” she says, placing a gloved hand over her heart.

Leon shakes his head. “Funny. So what’d you come here for?”

“Hmm...to talk?” Her voice is dryly amused with just a touch of old fondness as she appraises him thoughtfully. She tilts her head to the side, glossy dark hair reflecting the city lights coming in from the window. Her bangs, untucked from behind her ear, fall across the pert bridge of her nose. It makes her look guileless. Leon knows better than to be fooled.

“And you’re not even pointing a gun at me. Well, that’s new. By the way, you left something behind last time,” he says.

“I leave a lot of things behind,” Ada says, a hard glint in her eyes.

“Ammo casings don’t count,” Leon says, tossing her compact towards her. It sails through the air in a perfect silver arc and she catches it deftly.

“You kept it.” She examines it in her hand, expression cracking just enough to reveal something soft underneath before she slips it into a pocket.

Leon leans against the doorframe of the bathroom. “What are you really here for?” Ada likes to dance circles around him; he wants to cut to the chase. What he means to ask is- ‘How long are you staying?’, but he seals his lips together in a stern line and keeps his hands tucked under his folded arms as he watches her warily.

“Can’t I drop in on an old friend?”

“Can’t you wait till I put on some clothes?” He suddenly feels under-dressed, clad only in a towel.

“If you really think you’ll need them, you’re not as clever as I thought.” Ada rises then, amusement and something dark flashing in her eyes.

The air between them suddenly feels charged, electric. He swallows thickly, but manages to keep his composure. Just barely.

“And I thought you were here for business,” he says huskily as he steps towards her. One step, then two, until he closes the gap between them.

“Perish the thought,” she answers swiftly with with a bit of a laugh in her low voice as she pulls him close by the towel he had slung around his neck. “You know I never mix business and--”

Leon kisses her, hard, before she can finish her sentence. He knows it anyway.

* * *

There’s a million questions he wants to ask her. Where has she been? Where will she go? What has she been doing? Who does she work for, now? He’s heard some rumors lately- some shadowy organization that has worldwide reach.

In the here and now, none of those things matter so he settles for holding her tightly, almost afraid she’ll leave him burning, yet again.

The cool leather of her gloves is a stark contrast against his bare skin. It’s not fair; she is much too clothed. He tells her so, lips against the shell of her ear, as his fingers work clumsily at her blouse. “Too many damn buttons.”

She laughs, nimble fingers stroking gently through the fine hair at the nape of his neck. “What’s the hurry? I’m sure you’ll figure it out...eventually.”

Red like blood, black like shadow, those are her colors. Ada lets him undress her, murmuring wordless encouragement when he presses his mouth against the jut of her collarbones and laughing when he’s stymied by her bra- a translucent whisper of dark lace that makes his brain stutter and doesn’t cover nearly as much as it reveals.

He shivers when her nails rake his scalp gently. Heat courses through his chest when her fingers glide down over the taut muscles of his stomach, tracing the border between skin and towel.

Leon peels off layer upon layer of clothing, until she’s a mix of bare skin and shadow.

“Slow down,” she says, a bit breathlessly, backing up until she hits the bed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Leon slides a hand along the inside of her knee, up the silky pale skin of her thigh. “For now?” he asks, unable to help himself.

“Hmm, for now,” she agrees, eyes going even darker, heavy lidded with anticipation as his fingers trace the edge of damp black fabric. She can’t stay; he won’t abandon duty.

In the here and now, it doesn’t matter.

He drops to his knees and retraces the path of his hand with lips and teeth and tongue.

When he leans in to taste her, she tugs at his hair roughly, hard enough to remind him she’s unflinchingly real, and he makes a noise like desperation, like longing, low in his throat when she arches up against his mouth.

Slick heat along his tongue, and smooth soft skin against rough palms, fingers threading through his hair- that’s what his world narrows down to.

She makes a noise, fingers twisting, pushing at his shoulders and when he looks up, she’s watching him, hot breath coming in hard bursts.

“Leon,” she gasps, “enough of the pleasantries.”

He huffs out a laugh and stands, ache in his knees forgotten. “Now who’s impatient?”

She flashes him a look, equal parts appreciation, frustration and desire, and he thinks that she’s debating whether to sweep his legs out from under him or pin him underneath her.

His towel hits the floor and he joins her on the bed before she has a chance to decide.

Leon wants to take his time, savor each fleeting moment, commit every touch and taste to the vaults of memory, but she pulls him close, wraps her long legs around his hips, draws him in deep. They both gasp at the sensation, the sudden stretch and fill.

He touches her face gently, voice barely a raspy whisper. “You alright?”

“You’re worried about me? That’s cute.” And then she flips him under her, sultry triumph in her hooded eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

He ought to quip back, he thinks, but when she places her hands on his chest, traces the old bullet wound with a tenderness that she normally hides, all coherent thoughts flee his mind. The friction is hot enough to burn him, burn them both, from the inside out. 

She arches into him forcefully, moans when his hands span her hips and pull her close. Ada meets his desperation with equal ferocity shining in her eyes. Her fingers twist in his hair roughly, and he knows she’s close. He can feel her trembling all around him as she buries her teeth in his shoulder, stifling her cries against his skin. It lasts too long; it doesn’t last long enough. His body is tense like a bowstring as he follows her over, one step behind, just like always.

She stays there, face against his shoulder and he takes the opportunity to hold her against him, gentle fingers threading tentatively through her hair. Waiting in dread anticipation and fear for her to pull away.

Finally when she catches her breath, she sighs and turns, lips skimming his cheeks softly in a phantom kiss.

She rolls off of him, and stretches with catlike satisfaction. “So, I see you’ve gotten better at following a lady’s lead.”

“Give me a break,” he says, smiling. “You’re going to be the death of me, one day.”

“I hope not,” she says, earnestly. By degrees, her expression begins to close off once again. “You always leap before you look. It’s a bad quality, Leon. You’re not my shield,” she adds.

“Then what am I?” The depth of that question lingers in the air between them.

She bows her head, black hair falling like a curtain around her face. The silence stretches on for so long, he almost gives up on an answer.

“Someone I can’t lose.” The words come haltingly as though she’s afraid to part with them but there’s a quiet strength in her voice as she looks at him steadily.

He doesn’t think that he can form words around the lump in his throat, so he pulls her close and wraps his arms around her.

* * *

He doesn’t know how long they stay wrapped up like that. Long enough for him to get comfortable.

“You can let go now, Leon.” Her tone is light and a little dry, still playful and her hands card through his hair- a restive gesture.

“Compromise- how about I keep my hands where you can see them?” he murmurs sleepily.

She pulls away just enough to search his face, brings a hand up and traces his jawline and he feels the soft pads of her fingertips rasping over the stubble on his cheeks. She holds his gaze, and for a moment he sees something sad, something terrible.

Aloud, she says, “Don’t hold me too tight.” It’s a warning. Don’t make this harder than it is. The ephemerality of the moment is sobering.

He sucks in a breath and pulls his hands away, brings them up and folds them behind his head.

“You sure know how to pick’ em, don’t you?” His voice is without bitterness. He knows how it goes after all. They’re old hands at this.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to start stalking me too?” she says, back to playful.

He slants her a glance from the side. “No,” he says uncertainly. “I don’t think I can keep up with you.” If she decides to leave him behind...

She smiles. The look in her eyes is warm and sultry. “You did just fine tonight.”

He snorts. “You’re just stroking my ego.”

“I stroked more than that.”

He laughs then and the tension in the air disappears.

It’s back to flirtation and holding each other at an arms-length. He thinks about Simmons sometimes. Simmons never let go, and Ada, well, she just won’t stand to be held. He knows this, and he knows he’s strong enough so he’ll do as he has always done, let go and wait.

For a moment, Helena’s pitying look flashes through his head and her voice echoes- “Go after her!”

He knows he can’t. Ada is like sand, the harder you try to hold onto her, the quicker she slips out of your grasp.

He can only hold onto moments like this, when she’s lying next to him, body a warm line against his. He promises himself that these moments are enough, these moments are worth it. It’ll carry him through, this moment all the rest they’ve shared in their long and complicated history. What they have can’t even be defined but he cares about her, trusts her, even when he shouldn’t (especially when he shouldn’t), and knows deep inside she feels the same.

He’ll obey justice, and she’ll obey mission directives and none of that will matter in the end whether they’re working on the same side or at cross-purposes because they’ll always end up protecting each other.

There’s an uncertain look in her eyes. “I’ve done a lot of...regrettable things,” she says, pausing heavily between the words. She reaches out tentatively, brushing his bangs out of his eyes, hand lingering on his cheek. “But if there’s one thing I’ll never regret...”

“Yeah,” he says softly, leaning forward until their foreheads touch, hand holding hers to his cheek. He turns and presses a soft kiss against her wrist and she leans forward and returns the gesture.

Her lips taste bittersweet, like farewells maybe, or some sedative that has no name. That sneak. When she pulls away, his vision wavers at the edges like warped glass.

“See you around, Leon,” she says, and something very much like regret flashes across Ada’s face, before she masters it, sculpts her expression to that of the world-class spy and assassin that she is.

Leon wakes up alone, but can’t seem to hold it against her. This is how it always is, after all.

Whatever they have, might not seem much to other people, but to him, and to Ada, he knows it’s real, it’s solid, and it goes deep. They don’t use words to say ‘I love you’ so much as bullets, guns, and rocket launchers, and anyway Leon has learned to trust what people do, rather than what they say.

A glint of silver catches his eye. Her compact sits on the bedside table where she left it, so obvious and plain that it’s almost mocking. She never does things without intent and deliberation. Leon picks it up, thumbing the cool, smooth surface, and grips it hard in his hand, holds it close to his heart.

He gets up and stretches, rolls his shoulders and feels the strength and lightness in his limbs.

When she leaves, she takes a piece of her with him and leaves a piece of herself behind. An equal exchange. He’ll hold onto it until the next time they meet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Vera Rozalsky for the beta, and of course Laikkuseia for the fanart that inspired it all.
> 
> Also, assume safe sex was had. :)


End file.
